The Fredric Brown Megapack

by Brown, Fredric

  You invented the time machine.

  And before you used it on yourself, you made these arrangements to help you orient yourself. You wrote yourself the letter which you are now reading.

  But if those fifty years are—to you—gone, what of all your friends, those you loved? What of your parents? What of the girl you are going—were going—to marry?

  You read on:

  “Yes, you will want to know what has happened. Mom died in 1963, Dad in 1968. You married Barbara in 1956. I am sorry to tell you that she died only three years later, in a plane crash. You have one son. He is still living; his name is Walter; he is now forty-six years old and is an accountant in Kansas City.”

  Tears come into your eyes and for a moment you can no longer read. Barbara dead—dead for forty-five years. And only minutes ago, in subjective time, you were sitting next to her, sitting in the bright sun in a Beverly Hills patio…

  You force yourself to read again.

  “But back to the discovery. You begin to see some of its implications. You will need time to think to see all of them.

  “It does not permit time travel as we have thought of time travel, but it gives us immortality of a sort. Immortality of the kind I have temporarily given us.

  “Is it good? Is it worthwhile to lose the memory of fifty years of one’s life in order to return one’s body to relative youth? The only way I can find out is to try, as soon as I have finished writing this and made my other preparations.

  “You will know the answer.

  “But before you decide, remember that there is another problem, more important than the psychological one. I mean overpopulation.

  “If our discovery is given to the world, if all who are old or dying can make themselves young again, the population will almost double every generation. Nor would the world—not even our own relatively enlightened country—be willing to accept compulsory birth control as a solution.

  “Give this to the world, as the world is today in 2004, and within a generation there will be famine, suffering, war. Perhaps a complete collapse of civilization.

  “Yes, we have reached other planets, but they are not suitable for colonizing. The stars may be our answer, but we are a long way from reaching them. When we do, someday, the billions of habitable planets that must be out there will be our answer…our living room. But until then, what is the answer?

  “Destroy the machine? But think of the countless lives it can save, the suffering it can prevent. Think of what it would mean to a man dying of cancer. Think…”

  * * * *

  Think. You finish the letter and put it down.

  You think of Barbara dead for forty-five years. And of the fact that you were married to her for three years and that those years are lost to you.

  Fifty years lost. You damn the old man of seventy-five whom you became and who has done this to you…who has given you this decision to make.

  Bitterly, you know what the decision must be. You think that he knew, too, and realize that he could safely leave it in your hands. Damn him, he should have known.

  Too valuable to destroy, too dangerous to give.

  The other answer is painfully obvious.

  You must be custodian of this discovery and keep it secret until it is safe to give, until mankind has expanded to the stars and has new worlds to populate, or until, even without that, he has reached a state of civilization where he can avoid overpopulation by rationing births to the number of accidental—or voluntary—deaths.

  If neither of those things has happened in another fifty years (and are they likely so soon?), then you, at seventy-five, will be writing another letter like this one. You will be undergoing another experience similar to the one you’re going through now. And making the same decision, of course.

  Why not? You’ll be the same person again.

  Time and again, to preserve this secret until Man is ready for it.

  How often will you again sit at a desk like this one, thinking the thoughts you are thinking now, feeling the grief you now feel?

  There is a click at the door and you know that the time lock has opened, that you are now free to leave this room, free to start a new life for yourself in place of the one you have already lived and lost.

  But you are in no hurry now to walk directly through that door.

  You sit there, staring straight ahead of you blindly, seeing in your mind’s eye the vista of a set of facing mirrors, like those in an old-fashioned barber shop, reflecting the same thing over and over again, diminishing into far distance.

  EARTHMEN BEARING GIFTS

  Dhar Ry sat alone in his room, meditating. From outside the door he caught a thought wave equivalent to a knock, and, glancing at the door, he willed it to slide open.

  It opened. “Enter, my friend,” he said. He could have projected the idea telepathically; but with only two persons present, speech was more polite.

  Ejon Khee entered. “You are up late tonight, my leader,” he said.

  “Yes, Khee. Within an hour the Earth rocket is due to land, and I wish to see it. Yes, I know, it will land a thousand miles away, if their calculations are correct. Beyond the horizon. But if it lands even twice that far the flash of the atomic explosion should be visible. And I have waited long for first contact. For even though no Earthman will be on that rocket, it will still be first contact—for them. Of course our telepath teams have been reading their thoughts for many centuries, but—this will be the first physical contact between Mars and Earth.”

  Khee made himself comfortable on one of the low chairs. “True,” he said. “I have not followed recent reports too closely, though. Why are they using an atomic warhead? I know they suppose our planet is uninhabited, but still—”

  “They will watch the flash through their lunar telescopes and get a—what do they call it?—a spectroscopic analysis. That will tell them more than they know now (or think they know; much of it is erroneous) about the atmosphere of our planet and the composition of its surface. It is—call it a sighting shot, Khee. They’ll be here in person within a few oppositions. And then—”

  Mars was holding out, waiting for Earth to come. What was left of Mars, that is; this one small city of about nine hundred beings. The civilization of Mars was older than that of Earth, but it was a dying one. This was what remained of it: one city, nine hundred people. They were waiting for Earth to make contact, for a selfish reason and for an unselfish one.

  * * * *

  Martian civilization had developed in a quite different direction from that of Earth. It had developed no important knowledge of the physical sciences, no technology. But it had developed social sciences to the point where there had not been a single crime, let alone a war, on Mars for fifty thousand years. And it had developed fully the parapsychological sciences of the mind, which Earth was just beginning to discover.

  Mars could teach Earth much. How to avoid crime and war to begin with. Beyond those simple things lay telepathy, telekinesis, empathy….

  And Earth would, Mars hoped, teach them something even more valuable to Mars: how, by science and technology—which it was too late for Mars to develop now, even if they had the type of minds which would enable them to develop these things—to restore and rehabilitate a dying planet, so that an otherwise dying race might live and multiply again.

  Each planet would gain greatly, and neither would lose.

  And tonight was the night when Earth would make its first sighting shot. Its next shot, a rocket containing Earthmen, or at least an Earthman, would be at the next opposition, two Earth years, or roughly four Martian years, hence. The Martians knew this, because their teams of telepaths were able to catch at least some of the thoughts of Earthmen, enough to know their plans. Unfortunately, at that distance, the connection was one-way. Mars could not ask Earth to hurry
its program. Or tell Earth scientists the facts about Mars’ composition and atmosphere which would have made this preliminary shot unnecessary.

  Tonight Ry, the leader (as nearly as the Martian word can be translated), and Khee, his administrative assistant and closest friend, sat and meditated together until the time was near. Then they drank a toast to the future—in a beverage based on menthol, which had the same effect on Martians as alcohol on Earthmen—and climbed to the roof of the building in which they had been sitting. They watched toward the north, where the rocket should land. The stars shone brilliantly and unwinkingly through the atmosphere.

  * * * *

  In Observatory No. 1 on Earth’s moon, Rog Everett, his eye at the eyepiece of the spotter scope, said triumphantly, “Thar she blew, Willie. And now, as soon as the films are developed, we’ll know the score on that old planet Mars.” He straightened up—there’d be no more to see now—and he and Willie Sanger shook hands solemnly. It was an historical occasion.

  “Hope it didn’t kill anybody. Any Martians, that is. Rog, did it hit dead center in Syrtis Major?”

  “Near as matters. I’d say it was maybe a thousand miles off, to the south. And that’s damn close on a fifty-million-mile shot. Willie, do you really think there are any Martians?”

  Willie thought a second and then said, “No.”

  He was right.

  IMAGINE

  Imagine ghosts, gods, and devils.

  Imagine hells and heavens, cities floating in the sky and cities sunken in the sea. Unicorns and centaurs. Witches, warlocks, djinns, and banshees.

  Angels and harpies. Charms and incantations. Elementals, familiars, demons.

  Easy to imagine, all of those things: mankind has been imagining them for thousands of years. Imagine spaceships and the future.

  Easy to imagine; the future is really coming and there’ll be spaceships in it. Is there then anything that’s hard to imagine?

  Of course there is.

  Imagine a piece of matter and yourself inside it, yourself aware, thinking and therefore knowing you exist, able to move that piece of matter that you’re in, to make it sleep or wake, make love or walk uphill.

  Imagine a universe—infinite or not, as you wish to picture it—with a billion, billion, billion suns in it. Imagine a blob of mud whirling madly around one of those suns.

  Imagine yourself standing on that blob of mud, whirling with it, whirling through time and space to an unknown destination. Imagine!

  IT DIDN’T HAPPEN

  Although there was no way in which he could have known it, Lorenz Kane had been riding for a fall ever since the time he ran over the girl on the bicycle. The fall itself could have happened anywhere, any time; it happened to happen backstage at a burlesque theater on an evening in late September.

  For the third evening within a week he had watched the act of Queenie Quinn, the show’s star stripper, an act well worth watching, indeed. Clad only in blue light and three tiny bits of strategically placed ribbon, Queenie, a tall blond built along the lines of a brick whatsit, had just completed her last stint for the evening and had vanished into the wings, when Kane made up his mind that a private viewing of Queenie’s act, in his bachelor apartment, not only would be more pleasurable than a public viewing but would indubitably lead to even greater pleasures. And since the finale number, in which Queenie, as the star, was not required to appear, was just starting, now would be the best time to talk to her with a view toward obtaining a private viewing.

  He left the theater and strolled down the alley to the stage door entrance. A five-dollar bill got him past the doorman without difficulty and a minute later he had found and was knocking upon a dressing room door decorated with a gold star.

  A voice called out, “Yeah?”

  He knew better than to try to push a proposition through a closed door, and he knew his way around back-stage well enough to know the one question that would cause her to assume that he was someone connected with show business who had a legitimate reason for wanting to see her.

  “Are you decent?” he asked.

  “’Sta minute,” she called back, and then, in just a minute, “Okay.”

  He entered and found her standing facing him, in a bright red wrapper that beautifully set off her blue eyes and blond hair. He bowed and introduced himself, then began to explain the details of the proposition he wished to offer.

  He was prepared for initial reluctance or even refusal and ready to become persuasive even, if necessary, to the extent of four figures, which would certainly be more than her weekly take—possibly more than her monthly take—in a burlesque house as small as this one. But instead of listening reasonably, she was suddenly screaming at him like a virago, which was insulting enough, but then she made the very serious mistake of taking a step forward and slapping him across the face. Hard. It hurt.

  He lost his temper, retreated a step, took out his revolver and shot her in the heart.

  Then he left the theater and took a taxi home to his apartment. He had a few drinks to soothe his understandably ruffled nerves and went to bed. He was sleeping soundly when, at a little after midnight, the police came and arrested him for murder. He couldn’t understand it.

  * * * *

  Mortimer Mearson, who was possibly if not certainly the best criminal attorney in the city, returned to the clubhouse the next morning after an early round of golf and found waiting for him a message requesting him to call Judge Amanda Hayes at his earliest convenience. He called her at once.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” he said. “Something gives?”

  “Something gives, Morty. But if you’re free the rest of the morning and can drop around to my chambers, you’ll save me going into it over the telephone.”

  “I’ll be with you within an hour,” he told her. And he was.

  “Good morning again, Your Judgeship,” he said. “Now please take a deep breath and tell me just what it is that gives.”

  “A case for you, if you want it. Succinctly, a man was arrested for murder last night. He refuses to make a statement, any statement, until he has consulted an attorney, and he doesn’t have one. Says he’s never been in any legal trouble before and doesn’t even know any attorneys. Asked the chief to recommend one, and the chief passes the buck to me on said recommendation.”

  Mearson sighed. “Another free case. Well, I suppose it’s about time I took one again. Are you appointing me?”

  “Down, boy,” said Judge Hayes. “Not a free case at all. The gentleman in question isn’t rich, but he’s reasonably well-heeled. A fairly well-known young man about town, bon vivant, what have you, well able to afford any fee you wish to charge him, within reason. Not that your fee will probably be within reason, but that’s between you and him, if he accepts you to represent him.”

  “And does this paragon of virtue—most obviously innocent and maligned—have a name?”

  “He does, and you will be familiar with it if you read the columnists. Lorenz Kane.”

  “The name registers. Most obviously innocent. Uh—I didn’t see the morning papers. Whom is he alleged to have killed? And do you know any of the details?”

  “It’s going to be a toughie, Morty boy,” the judge said. “I don’t think there’s a prayer of a chance for him other than an insanity plea. The victim was a Queenie Quinn—a stage name and no doubt a more valid one will come to light—who was a stripper at the Majestic. Star of the show there. A number of people saw Kane in the audience during her last number and saw him leave right after it during the final number. The doorman identifies him and admits having—ah—admitted him. The doorman knew him by sight and that’s what led the police to him. He passed the doorman again on his way out a few minutes later. Meanwhile several people heard a shot. And a few minutes after the end of the show, Miss Quinn was found dead, shot to
death, in her dressing room.”

  “Hmmm,” said Mearson. “Simple matter of his word against the doorman’s. Nothing to it. I’ll be able to prove that the doorman is not only a pathological liar but has a record longer than Wilt-the-Stilt’s arm.”

  “Indubitably, Morty. But. In view of his relative prominence, the police took a search warrant as well as a warrant for arrest on suspicion of murder when they went to get him. They found, in the pocket of the suit he had been wearing, a thirty-two caliber revolver with one cartridge fired. Miss Quinn was killed by one bullet fired from a thirty-two caliber revolver. The very same revolver, according to the ballistics experts of our police department, who fired a sample bullet and used a comparison microscope on it and the bullet which killed Miss Quinn.”

  “Hmmm and double hmmm,” Mearson said. “And you say that Kane has made no statement whatsoever except to the effect that he will make no statement until he has consulted with an attorney of his choice?”

  “True, except for one rather strange remark he made immediately after being awakened and accused. Both of the arresting officers heard it and agree on it, even to the exact wording. He said, ‘My God, she must have been real!’ What do you suppose he could possibly have meant by that?”

  “I haven’t the faintest, Your Judgeship. But if he accepts me as his attorney, I shall most certainly ask him. Meanwhile, I don’t know whether to thank you for giving me a chance at the case or to cuss at you for handing me a very damned hot potato.”

  “You like hot potatoes, Morty, and you know it. Especially since you’ll get your fee win or lose. I’ll save you from making wasted motions in one direction, though. No use trying for bail or for a habeas corpus writ. The D.A. jumped in with both feet the moment the ballistics report came up heads. The charge is formal, murder in the first. And the prosecution doesn’t need any more case than they have; they’re ready to go to trial as soon as they can pressure you into it. Well, what are you waiting for?”